th his strong hairy hands, trembling with emotion, he hunted among the
papers in an enormous shagreen portfolio which he had under his arm.

"Never mind that--never mind. I am acquainted with the whole affair. I
know that, wilfully or not, they have mixed you up with another person,
whom family considerations--"

The duke could not restrain a smile at the bewilderment of the Nabob,
stupefied to find him so well informed.

"A Minister of State has to know everything. But don't worry. Your
election will be declared valid all the same. And once declared valid--"

Jansoulet heaved a sigh of relief.

"Ah, M. le Duc, how it cheers me to hear you speak thus! I was beginning
to lose all confidence. My enemies are so powerful. And a piece of bad
luck into the bargain. Do you know that it is Le Merquier himself who is
charged with the report on my election?"

"Le Merquier? The devil!"

"Yes, Le Merquier, Hemerlingue's agent, the dirty hypocrite who
converted the baroness, no doubt because his religion forbade him to
have a Mohammedan for a mistress."

"Come, come, Jansoulet."

"Well, M. le Duc? One can't help being angry. Think of the situation
in which these wretches are placing me. Here I ought to have had my
election made valid a week ago, and they arrange the postponement of the
sitting expressly because they know the terrible position in which I am
placed--my whole fortune paralyzed, the Bey waiting for the decision of
the Chamber to decide whether or not he can plunder me. I have eighty
millions over there, M. le Duc, and here I begin to be short of money.
If the thing goes on only a little longer--"

He wiped away the big drops of sweat that trickled down his cheeks.

"Ah, well, I will look after this validation myself," said the minister
sharply. "I will write to what's-his-name to hurry up with his report;
and even if I have to be carried to the Chamber--"

"Your excellency is unwell?" asked Jansoulet, in a tone of interest
which, I swear to you, had no affectation about it.

"No--a little weakness. I am rather anaemic--wanting blood; but Jenkins
is going to put me right. Aren't you, Jenkins?"

The Irishman, who had not been listening, made a vague gesture.

"_Tonnerre!_ And here am I with only too much of it."

And the Nabob loosened his cravat about his neck, swollen like an
apoplexy by his emotion and the heat of the room. "If I could only
transfer a little to you, M. le Duc!"

"It would be an exce